


El Rio, Mission District

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mission District, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Sex, Casual pickups, Gay Strip Club, Lap Dances, M/M, Shamelessly shippy as always, So if that's not your thing ...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis/Davos, male strip club. Davos is there with a group of guys as part of a bachelor party bar crawl. Stannis is there alone, tortured by his sexual preferences. One of the guys gets Davos a lap dance from some young well-oiled thing in a leather thong, Stannis watches in arousal and fascination, their eyes meet across the tables full of empty shot glasses and …</p>
            </blockquote>





	El Rio, Mission District

**Author's Note:**

> Written for stannisficartweek!

 

The dancers have been working their shifts for three hours, grinding their way through the slippery disco music across the stage. Black matte flooring is slicked with a sheen of body oil that collects dust and resin as the hours inch by: outside, the sun has set and the stars are out shining through high clouds, but inside the bar, the iridescent lights, purple and yellow and blue against dark walls keep the place timeless. 

Stannis doesn’t know how long he’s been there, or how long he’s planning to stay. What he does know is that he has memorized the entire Daft Punk catalog by now, unwelcome as that is — and only slightly more welcome, he’s memorized the catlike moves of some of the dancers, men in leather, denim, black mesh and, eventually, nothing. He’s here after work, not because he wants to be, but because he has to be — he has nowhere else to be, and nothing else he has to look forward to but the headachy thump of the bass, the bright teeth of the men on the stage, and the strong drinks served up promptly by the bartenders, also black-clad but bearing more the attitude of stagehands, not stars, at the El Rio Gentlemen’s Club. 

This is Stannis’ first time at El Rio. He has come alone. He has spoken to no one, accepted no table dances, waved away all conversation from stage or floor, and has not even, really, enjoyed himself.

\--

Sal and his fiance, whose name Davos can never remember — probably because there’ve been too many of them over the years — are, allegedly, getting married next weekend. Sometimes Davos wonders if Sal’s frequent engagements are excuses to party, collect gifts, drink, or all of the above. This is at least the fifth bachelor party Davos can remember, and he’s sure there are some he can’t. 

He lifts himself up on the balls of his feet to grin across the heads of the men walking five or six across on the sidewalk of the city’s most colorful district, seeking out the answering flashing smile of his oldest friend. Sal shoulders his way through his entourage.

“Where to next?” Davos asks. “Where does, uh...”

“He wants to go to El Rio,” Sal cuts in, without ever reminding Davos of his intended’s name. 

“Already?” Davos looks at his cell phone. “It’s barely eleven. Nobody’s going to be in there yet.”

“We have a lot of people,” Sal says, counting heads, drifting back into the throng. “And if there is anyone there ...” He pulls a flask out of his partner’s back pocket, taking a healthy feel of ass as he does so. “They’ll make room for us.”

\--

The noise reaches Stannis before the sight does: a dozen men slamming the door open, piling in with the raucous shouts of people who have been drunk for hours and are nowhere near stopping. Stannis rolls his eyes, but nobody sees him do it. He had wondered where all the clientele was: each time a new person had come into the bar, they’d ended up going backstage and Stannis had watched them dance on it half an hour later. There were a few single guys and couples who’d drifted in and out, but no real scene. Stannis doesn’t know how grateful he had been for the quiet until this crowd breaks it up, shoving tables together, clashing metal chair legs, shouting drink orders, hooting at the dancer on stage. He watches them silently; their clumsiness is a break from the too-smooth dancers, and from the dull state of arousal he’s been in since he got here. He had been hoping that coming to the El Rio would bring a measure of relief from the fantasies that tormented him — the men on trains, in the gyms, and even on the Internet when he’d had enough to drink to have the courage to look. He had always been alone. But here, too, he is alone, a paying spectator of art that does not even move him.

At the center of the loud group is a black-skinned man, one of the darkest men Stannis has ever seen, with a shaved head and muscles bulging out of the rolled-up sleeves of his white t-shirt. His leather pants match the vests of some of the other men who have come in with him. He wears a tiara; Stannis quirks his eyebrow in spite of himself. On the back of his t-shirt, someone had written in marker, “BRIDE.”

The groom is not similarly labeled, but Stannis has to assume it’s the man who climbs across the black man’s legs, artlessly imitating a lap dance before he is shoved off. “Get me a real dance, Mary,” the bride guffaws, and his accent is startling, Stannis can’t place it. Another man flags down the dancer who’s on stage, and he gets obligingly into the lap of the bride as the group oohs and ahhs and pays attention in earnest.

The drinks flow, the music shifts louder, and as Stannis gets to the suddenly crowded bar for another Scotch, he hears two men talking over the drone of the techno. “Sal’s having a good time,” one says, “he was right when he said they’d make room — there’s nobody here at all.”

“It’s so early,” the second man says. “There are more people here than I thought there would be, for this hour, though …” He pays for two drinks, looks around and, suddenly, he’s caught Stannis’ glance. He crinkles his eyes in a smile and lifts his glass halfway in polite greeting, then he’s gone, back into the group. 

\--

Sal’s bought dances for everyone except Davos, and some of the group are already gone into back rooms for private shows, to come out looking dazed or with shit-eating grins. “It’s your turn, babe,” Sal says tipsily. Davos knows Sal’s drunk because he never calls him “babe” anymore unless he’s three sheets to the wind. 

“All right, all right,” Davos says, amiably. He did wonder when Sal was going to get around to him. Davos is the only bisexual in Sal’s group, and as such some of his friends seem to forget he actually likes guys. 

“Carlo-ooooos,” Sal calls to the man about to come on stage, his basso profundo voice projecting across the room. “Carlos, _mijo_! Come over here and give my babe Davos a little somethin’.”

Carlos stalks over, somehow looking tough and effeminate at the same time. He glares down at Davos and Sal from under perfect eyebrows; he can’t look menacing even when he tries. But his voice is the right mix of gruff and quiet — enough to startle Davos with a sharp twinge in his groin just hearing it — when he glances down at his tight faded jeans and growls, “It ain’t a _little_ somethin’.”

\--

Stannis hears the loud roar of laughter of the man called Sal, and glances over. He’s bought another private performance from another dancer, for another one of his buddies — will this ever end, Stannis thinks, at the same time as envy rears its head yet again at their exuberance and their amusement. He has no friends like this. He has to think whether he has any friends at all. Under the haze of alcohol, it somehow doesn’t seem like it. Meanwhile the stripper Carlos has slid his jeans partway down his round ass; Stannis can see one brown cheek hanging out of a black thong. The man on the receiving end is the one from the bar, who had said it was too early to be out. But he’s been the only one to notice Stannis so far. Stannis, hardly knowing what he’s doing, moves his chair slightly so he has a better view of both of them, not just the gyrating buttocks and strip of leather. 

There’s a disco ball spinning above the stage, shooting crystals of light across the room, flashing through the stacks of empty shot glasses on the tables between Sal’s party and Stannis. He focuses away from all that to watch the lap dance, fixes his eyes on Carlos and then on the other man, who’s not wearing the leather or tank tops of the rest of the group — he’s wearing a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Carlos grinds down hard on him, but the man looks over Carlos’ shoulder and sees Stannis and blinks in recognition. Then he half-smiles again — it’s almost a smirk — looking him full in the face, and Stannis feels the frustrating arousal he’s been alternately fighting and ignoring all night expand and wash over him like a wave. He feels the blood rush to his cheeks and he keeps watching, his cock suddenly painfully hard and his hands sweaty. 

Carlos takes hold of the man’s long hair and yanks, pulling his head back over the edge of the chair, exposing his neck, and Stannis shifts in his seat, one foot convulsively tapping against the table leg as he watches breathlessly. Sal is laughing raucously at something, the music thumps louder, but Stannis can only hear it all through a thick fog as he waits for the other man to come upright again. When he does, he fixes his eyes on Stannis, purposeful and deliberate and glazed. Stannis thinks he might climax right there in the chair without ever touching himself, just from that look. He closes his eyes for a brief second, thinking again of that smile and of Carlos’ fingers tangled in the long hair, and how warm his neck would be. When he looks again, he’s still being watched. He holds onto his empty highball glass for dear life, lest he get up, shove the dancer and the others away, and devour this man, whoever he is and wherever he came from.

\--

On unsteady feet, Davos makes his way to the bar. It’s not Carlos who’s left him such a melted mess, barely breathing — it’s the guy at the other table, who had watched him with such unmasked desire that he couldn’t ignore it, and once he had grasped the meaning of it, he didn’t want to ignore it. He wants to see that look again.

“What’s that guy drinking?” Davos asks the bartender. “The one in the tie, over there by himself.” 

“Scotch and soda.”

“Go take him one from me. Please,” Davos adds, flashing a shaky grin at the bartender. 

“He’s cute,” says the bartender, appraisingly. “Looks kind of repressed, though. He’s been in here all night and ... you know. Nothing.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Davos says. “He’s got a look about him. There might be more going on than you’d think.”

The bartender clicks his tongue against his teeth, thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t bet on it. But I’ll take him his drink. From you,” he says. 

Davos returns to his table, slides gratefully into his chair and into the conversations surrounding him. He tries not to stare at the other table, but is thankful for the darkness of the bar when he keeps glancing over. The man looks distracted, but when the bartender appears with the drink, he pays him full attention and his eyes go wide. Then he looks at Davos. Davos smiles back, an apologetic _What the hell, right?_ The man, unaccountably, bites his bottom lip as if unsure what to say or do. The sudden pounding of blood in Davos’ veins is so powerful that he thinks he might faint. Somehow he gets up out of his seat, negotiating his friends’ feet and pint glasses and the glare of the stage lights. He makes his way to the other table. He slips into the chair that waits for him. The blue eyes catch his own, searching, magnetic, shiny with lust, and oh, he is lost.

\--

The necessary introductions have been made and the name is thrumming in Stannis’ bloodstream: _Davos, Davos, Davos._ Stannis wants to know more about this man — he will know it all in time — but right now he thinks he might not even survive five more minutes if they can’t be alone soon. He lets Davos put his hand on his knee and just that touch sends his head spinning. 

“Where did you park?” he asks. He tries not to sound as breathless as he feels, or as desperate.

“I took the subway,” Davos says. “Didn’t you?”

“No. I parked a few blocks away in a garage.”

“The one on Cesar Chavez? That garage charges $30 for the night!” Davos looks alarmed. 

“It doesn’t matter. Can you–”

Davos’ hand tightens on Stannis’ leg. Stannis’ vision swims in front of him, the glasses, the light shooting off the marbled black table, the loudly dressed crowds that are coming in — it’s all a blur, the world reduced down to a warm fiery thing spreading all through him. Through the fog, Davos is speaking. “I’ll come with you. But I can’t guarantee I’ll let you drive off anytime soon.”

Stannis swallows and pulls Davos’ hand roughly up to his neck, where Davos can feel his pounding pulse. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, half fearing the answer.

Davos smiles wickedly, in the way that twists Stannis’ stomach and makes him feel weak, his bones turned to water. “Because you want it,” he says.

“No.” Stannis hears his own voice, the word echoing harsh in the air. He stands up, forcibly bringing Davos, who looks perplexed for a moment, with him. “I need it.” 

Then Davos’ hand tightens around his own, pleased and warm. His friends will pay the tab; they won’t even miss him. The night waits outside, and they are in it, and though anticipation tingles inside him with every step, Stannis is still aware of the thin mist and, through it, the midnight stars.

\--

Davos slides effortlessly to his knees on the carpeted floor of Stannis’ car. He wonders if he should feel a bit like a hustler, and the thought makes him grin against Stannis’ wrinkled trouser leg. Stannis is not smiling. He’s almost grimacing, his face tight. 

“How long has it been,” Davos asks, hands on the thin waist, fingers fumbling for a button, “since you’ve—”

“A long time,” Stannis says, in that softly roughened voice that makes Davos’ eyes shiver closed with unexpected longing. It’s as though Stannis doesn’t want to answer, and Davos suddenly knows that the answer is _never_ , at least like this, not with the raw need he had seen in Stannis’ face from the first moment their eyes had met. And he knows another thing: that if he isn’t careful it will be over all too soon. He gets Stannis’ pants and boxers down, he feels the carpet scraping his knee through his jeans, and he wants to take Stannis in his mouth and hear his gasps and feel Stannis deep within him. But he teases instead, with the tip of his tongue, tracing ticklish pathways from Stannis’ balls to the tip of his cock until he’s writhing and keening in the seat. He’s biting his lip again, breathing hard, and Davos can’t help it now — he shifts on his knees, lowers his mouth onto Stannis’ cock and closes his eyes, reveling in the heat and fullness of it. 

“Oh fuck yes, oh God yes,” he hears Stannis hiss through his teeth, and Stannis runs his hand blindly across Davos’ forehead and down into his hair where he tightens his fingers and pulls, hard. Now it’s Davos moaning around Stannis as the sting of it ripples through him, electric and all-encompassing. He gets his hands under Stannis’ ass and pulls him up, taking him deeper, and that’s all it takes. Stannis comes hot and fast in Davos’ mouth and his panting fills the air around them and Davos thrusts up against his leg, wantonly like a horny teenager, and comes himself, biting at the nearest patch of skin he can find to stifle his shuddering cry.

\--

They’ve made it out of the parking garage after all. They climb the stairs to Stannis’ apartment, stopping at each landing to drop unsteady kisses on necks and collarbones and goosebumpy arms. They are laughing when they finally get inside, Davos trying to talk between gasps, Stannis trying to elicit more. 

Davos wonders aloud if they should call Carlos the dancer to come join them. 

“We can send him champagne in the morning,” Stannis says. “Flowers. Orange juice.” Davos breaks into that grin again, pulling Stannis into the bedroom. There is no more talk of Carlos.

Late in the morning, Stannis wakes up wrapped in the sweet strong arms of Davos. The sun is slanting in through the window. The shiny black floor and the mesh-clad men and the months, the years of desperate, silent longing seem very far away. This could be nothing, he knows — just another pickup in another bar, one of a thousand that night in the whole bright city. Or it could be everything. He has nowhere else to be, and everything to look forward to.


End file.
